Constable Molly Smith 01 - In the Shadow of the Glacier

Chapter One
    People were of two minds about Reginald (“Call me Reg”) Montgomery. They either hated him or thought he was the best thing to happen to this town in years. He never spoke when a shout would do, and never shouted when a bellow would do even better. Slighter men had been heard to complain that a slap on the back from Reg could send them head first across the room. And as for the women, most of them had learned to take a step backward, out of hugging range, at Reg’s approach. His suits were too loud, his face red and dotted with beads of sweat regardless of the temperature, and his handshake too strong.
    But he made a point of shopping at the local stores, rather than the Wal-Mart in Nelson, eating out regularly, usually at family-owned restaurants, and tipping well. Ellie, his wife, had her hair done at Maggie’s Salon on Front Street, bought her clothes from Joanie’s Ladies Wear and contributed generously, in time as well as money, to the hospital and the seniors center.
    Reg and Ellie had only been in town for a few months, but in that time he had managed to make a few friends and a good number of enemies.
    And, apparently, one person who hated him enough to kill him.
    Constable Molly Smith had eaten curried tofu for supper. In retrospect that was a mistake: spicy bile rose into her throat and she swallowed heavily, trying to keep the food in her stomach, where it belonged.
    She had seen plenty of traffic injuries, including fatalities. After the first few times, she’d learned to control her stomach and let her mind throw up a shield behind which she could hide from some of the ugliness that was the human body exposed to violent, unexpected death. But she’d never seen anyone who appeared to have been killed by another human being, and for some reason that made it harder for her protective armor to settle into place.
    Reg Montgomery lay in the alley; urine stained his beige slacks and blood and brains stained the pavement. He was lying on his back, facing the long twilight of a gentle summer’s evening. Smith turned away and fingered the radio at her shoulder.
    “Go ahead, Officer.”
    She pressed her hand to her chest, and took a single, deep breath. “I’m…” The word came out as a frightened squeal, and she coughed once to clear her throat. “Smith here. I’m in the alley behind Alphonse’s Bakery on Front Street. That’s just west of Elm. I have a Code 5, suspicious circumstances, and need assistance.”
    “Someone will be there shortly, Constable Smith.”
    A small animal rustled in the green garbage bags behind the convenience store beside the bakery. She rested her hand on the butt of the Glock at her side and cast the light from her flashlight around the bags. Her nerve endings tingled. If a rat ran out of the shadows, she’d scream. But the garbage fell still.
    The scent of the day’s baking lingered around the edges of the alley, blending with the odors of garlic, caramelized onions, and cooking spices from the restaurant on the other side of the bakery. Lights were on in the kitchen, the blinds only partly drawn, and Smith could see the cooks working—a flurry of barely controlled chaos. It was coming up to nine o’clock, on a Thursday night in the middle of tourist season. Feuilles de Menthe, the popular French restaurant, would be in full service frenzy.
    The kitchen windows were open and the clatter of crockery, shouted orders, and bursts of laughter poured from the restaurant along with light and the smell of good food cooking. The rest of the alley was quiet.
    Smith realized that she was gripping her gun, and forced her fingers to relax. She wiped her palms on the seat of her trousers and told herself she had nothing to fear. If the person responsible for Montgomery’s death had been lingering in the alley, he’d have jumped her before she radioed for help.
    She looked up. It was a two-story building, bakery on the street, probably an apartment above. The upper windows were closed, curtains drawn. If he’d fallen, if it had been an accident, he wouldn’t have closed the window behind him. Suicide? No one wanting to kill himself would try a two-story drop, would he? More likely to end up with a broken leg than dead. At a quick glance Smith could see nothing that might have been used as a weapon, and she knew better than to start poking around before the detectives and scene-of-the crime officers arrived.
    It had to be murder. There hadn’t been a murder in